


nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

by jolt



Series: drop a heart, break a name [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Fluff and Angst, M/M, My bullshit being throwing hockey players into pop punk bands and reliving my emo years, Slow Burn, TBH I wanna live in this AU, Technically a sequel but you don't have to read the first one for this to make sense!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/pseuds/jolt
Summary: The thing is, Dylan and Mitch and Connor used to be in a band, in high school. They were a fucking trio, like Blink-182: Mitch on drums, Dylan on bass, and Connor on guitar. They called themselves Ten Minute Misconduct, and they fuckingruled. They sold an unprecedented 40,000 copies of their first album, which was out before they’d even graduated high school, and they went on legit tours and had legit fans. Brothers for life. They were gonna conquer the world together.And then, two years ago, Connor abandoned them.(Or, sometimes you just have to bury the hatchet. The Pop Punk AU.)





	nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guess what, folks? I put a bunch of hockey guys into bands again, and made them tour together and fall in love AGAIN.
> 
> Disclaimer A: You DON'T have to have read the prequel to this for it to make sense, but it might help fill in some gaps. This takes place a few years after the prequel.
> 
> Disclaimer B: THIS IS A MADE UP STORY THAT I MADE UP AND IS THEREFORE TOTALLY FICTIONAL. I REPEAT: THIS IS A FICTIONAL ACCOUNT OF EVERYONE MENTIONED, AND IF YOU RECOGNIZE YOUR NAME OR THOSE OF PEOPLE YOU KNOW, PLS TURN AROUND.
> 
> Disclaimer C: Feel free to languish in this AU with me
> 
> Title is from Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes, by FOB.
> 
> FEEDBACK IS MY LIFEBLOOD!

It’s been six months since Zach’s big, stupid announcement.

Six months ago, Zach thought he’d struck them tour gold, and - to be fair - he wasn’t _wrong_. The problem was that nothing about his announcement was even remotely fair, okay? Not even close. Because Mitch has had Your Overtime Heroes posters plastered on his bedroom wall for years, and Willy only got into punk music because of The Blue Line Strike, and Dylan idolizes Tyler Seguin’s songwriting style to an obsessive and probably unhealthy degree, so there was no real way they could turn down the tour. They owed it to their fifteen-year-old selves to do it.

Even if that meant sharing a lineup spot with The Soundless Deep.

Dylan hadn’t even really thought much about it at the time. Well, there was the glaringly obvious fact that besides the two bands they’d looked up to since adolescence, the other band on tour was...who it was. But at the time, Dylan basically ignored it, which is his fault, yeah, but the closer they got to the start of tour, the more he started to harp on it -  
  
(Dylan groaned. “It’s gonna be weird.”  
  
“It’s not,” Mitch said, strangely confident.

“You can’t control how he behaves; you can only control your own actions,” Willy piped in.

Dylan threw his empty McDonald’s fry container at Willy’s head. “Stop doing that thing where you give me advice like I’m in anger management.”

“Then stop acting like you _need_ anger management - "

Mitch gave them both a very pointed look and crossed his arms. “It really won't be so bad,” he insisted, calm, like he could just _control_ these things.

“I haven’t spoken to Connor in, like, almost two years.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Because you crave angst.”

“I don’t _crave angst_ ,” Dylan replied, using heavy air quotes.

“Where else would you get your inspiration?” Willy asked, infuriatingly half-serious. “Come on, nobody could write a song like _West Virginia_ without experiencing the worst bro-break up on this side of the Milky Way.”

Sometimes, Dylan really hated the fact that Mitch and Willy have eerily similar dispositions vis à vis his and Connor’s _past_. He’s not sure how Mitch got over it so easily, either; they were all best friends. They were supposed to be brothers for life, or so they’d sworn to one another in the sixth grade. You know a person your whole life, and then they turn on you — it’s not something you just bounce back from without a few scars. There are scars all over Dylan’s and Connor’s lyrics, and in places Dylan’s not proud of, but Connor’s the one who walked, so.

“I mean, you’ve heard — ”

“The songs? Yeah. I’ve heard them all.” Dylan answered. Because he had. He actually paid $9.99 on iTunes to listen to forty minutes of Connor’s ridiculously good voice and “artistically different” new band. If pressed, Dylan will admit that he didn’t mind it, but he’s barely ready to admit that he actually listened to it.

“Guys,” Zach cut in, firm. His Manager voice. The three of them whipped around to face him. “Heads out of asses for thirty seconds, please?”)

That’s ultimately how Dylan finds himself driving along the East Coast in October, on tour with bands they grew up listening to and modelled their own sounds after. And on tour with a band formed by his former best friend. The first few days of tour, Dylan barely wanted to leave his bunk. Eventually, Zach, tour managing them the way tour managers do, kicked them out of the bus and into the venue for a set of interviews and literally forcing Dylan from his metaphorical quarantine.

So, yeah, Dylan and Mitch and Connor used to be in a band, in high school.

They were a fucking trio, like Blink-182: Mitch on drums, Dylan on bass, and Connor on guitar. They called themselves Ten Minute Misconduct, and they fucking _ruled_. Connor and Dylan usually alternated vocals, until it became pretty obvious that Connor just had the better voice and should always sing lead. They sold an unprecedented 40,000 copies of their first album, which was out before they’d even graduated high school, and they went on legit tours and had legit fans. Brothers for life. They were gonna conquer the world together.

And then, two years ago, Connor abandoned them because of “artistic differences”.

In other words, Connor was too good for them and everyone knew it, and he wanted to produce music that had, like, backing trumpet and shit. Stuff that was more advanced and _risky_ and that pushed the limits of what punk music could do. Dylan doesn’t really know - all he could hear was that Connor was leaving them.

Connor called his new band The Soundless Deep. And they do, in fact, have tracks with fucking strings and trumpet and crap in them. One song sounds like it’s got a full fucking symphony playing during the bridge. 

Dylan's mostly over it. Or, he thought he was, before this stupid tour. It’s just dredging up a lot of feelings that are still too sharp - all that hurt Dylan convinced himself he could overcome only by burying it. At the time, Dylan thought the day Connor left was going to be the worst day of his life. He had no idea that the days and weeks that followed would be way, way worse. So full of emptiness and resentment towards the person he’d loved and idolized since they were kids. Eventually, Dylan realized that in order to get past the anger and sadness, his only option was to double down until he and the band were twice as successful without Connor as they were with him.

So Dylan didn’t rest, and he and Mitch regrouped, and it was better than before. Dylan wrote songs all the time and practiced bass every night until his fingers bled and his calluses were so horrendous that his parents’ cat didn’t let him pet her.

They met Willy through mutual friends, and Willy turned out to also be in between bands and to shred like a fucking animal, despite being way too pretty to be a believable punk. After a month or so of practicing and writing and playing shows on the college scene, they leveraged their earlier band fame to record an EP and then a full-length album. They have a crew, now, for heaven’s sake; a lighting guy and a merch guy and a tour manager, all of whom they pay, like livable wages, and Dylan still gets passing moments where he feels something is just missing from the equation.

So far, Dylan’s been lucky in that he hasn’t had to see too much of Connor. There’s been some backstage shuffling, since 10MM are the opening act and The Soundless Deep follow their set right after, but Dylan's managed to squeeze past oncoming guys before having to be stuck in a dimly lit hallway with kid he almost let ruin his life. It’s been two years since Dylan’s spoken to Connor, and even longer since he toured with the motherfucker. Dylan knows it’s lame, how even the mention of Connor can make him feel angry and awkward, but despite writing two allegedly cathartic albums, the pain’s still there. They toured Europe and Asia without Connor and the pain’s still there.

Does it make sense that he’s still so hurt and bitter after two solid years apart? No.

Does that mean he’s going to push past his ennui and work on his acceptance for the good of his friends, the tour, and his own sanity? Also no.

Mitch was always the forgive and forget type. Part of Dylan never understood how Mitch just got over Connor leaving so easily, but the other part - the part of Dylan that made him latch onto that anger and hurt in the first place, knows exactly why.

 

* * *

 

Anyway, Dylan’s luck runs out on a rainy afternoon in Halifax, just after soundcheck. Everyone had something else to do before getting ready for the show, so Dylan thought it would be a good idea to stop by the green room for a bottle of water.

It just so happens The Soundless Deep are giving an interview in that very green room.

Realistically, it’s not the end of the world, because in general, giving an interview means Connor’s attention is very much diverted and Dylan therefore won’t be forced into a situation where they have to, like, interact. So, Dylan tries to just walk past them and ignore it, figuring he’ll just find water elsewhere. But he lingers in the doorway for a few minutes to catch Connor and his new band talk about their new album and the tour. It's...a mistake. On so many levels, this is a mistake, but Dylan's really curious about what Connor's new band is like, what their interview dynamic is. The dude interviewing them starts asking questions about the other bands, and what it feels like to be touring with Sidney Crosby. Connor flushes, but Dylan knows it’s only because he lost his virginity to one of Your Overtime Heroes’ songs. Dylan wonders if any of the guys he’s sitting with know that. He doubts Darnell Nurse knows that.

“It’s an honour, obviously, to be touring with them,” Connor says, “we work really hard, so it’s great to have it pay off.”

Dylan remembers Connor hating interviews, never knowing what to say or how to say it without sounding like a tool. At a certain point, Mitch and Dylan ended up fielding all the major interview questions, with Connor throwing in little responses along the way. It’s laughable, how reserved Connor always is in interviews. Compared to, well, when he’s piss drunk and throwing himself around a mosh pit, seventeen years old and not a day older. He was always way more susceptible to agreeing to Dylan’s plans when drunk, stuff like egging their asshole math teacher’s house or skinny dipping in the neighbour’s pool. Those days feel like several lifetimes ago. Dylan’s a little lost in the memory, and forgets that his phone isn’t on silent until it starts blaring his _Misery Business_ ringtone and alerts him and every guy in the green room that Mitch is calling. Connor’s eyes snap up and meet his, but his expression is totally unreadable, and absolutely everything about the situation triggers Dylan’s fight or flight response.

He chooses flight.

Dylan charges down the narrow hallway to the emergency exit at the back that leads out to the parking lot, and answers Mitch’s call.

“Want anything from McDonald’s?” Mitch asks, blessedly unaware of the ass Dylan just made of himself in front of Connor and all of Connor’s new bandmates.

“10 piece nuggets with honey mustard,” he answers, though, ‘cause kid’s gotta eat.

On his way back into the theatre, Dylan bumps into Tyler Seguin. He literally walks _right into_ the guy, and it’s like walking into a wall of solid muscle. Dylan stumbles backwards.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tyler greets, despite being shorter than Dylan and only, like, five years older than him.

Tyler’s a pretty nice guy, easy to get along with and everything. He's always bouncing around, kind of the way Mitch does, like he’s got some secret store of energy that just keeps him hype at all hours of the day. It’s admirable, if exhausting, but he’s been nothing but generous and nice to them since tour started a week ago. And, considering some of the bands 10 Minute Misconduct has had to tour with in the past, it’s a huge breath of fresh air. East Coast tour with tons of Canadian cities are always fun. Everyone’s sort of on the same wavelength, except for Connor, who’s as unreadable as a fucking rock. Doesn’t mean Dylan has the slightest idea about how he’s supposed to act around these older guys. He doesn’t have a goddamn clue.

“Hey…man,” Dylan replies. Tyler’s not many years his senior but he’s still, like, Dylan’s _senior_ and also he’s _Tyler Seguin_ , so Dylan doesn’t know what the fuck to say to him. _Hey, I used to listen to your music back when I was pining over the dumbest guy in the whole world_? Like, no — just. No.

At the same time, he’s also _Tyler Seguin_ , whose band recorded a song about boners and put it on their album, and not even as a bonus track or b-side or anything — as a genuine track on their album, so he’s basically a legend and has been Dylan’s hero since junior high.

“Sup?” Tyler asks, and Dylan can tell he’s not even putting on that chill skater voice — that’s just how he talks. It’d be really grating if he wasn’t so cool.

Dylan blanks, though, and he says the first thing that pops into his head, which happens to be,

“Chicken nuggets.”

All those people who say don’t meet your heroes were probably trying to protect Dylan from making a total dick of himself.

 

* * *

 

Dylan watches Connor’s band, that night. It’s mostly a conscious choice.

After his own set, Dylan slinks to the back of the venue, where Mo is manning the merch table, and takes advantage of the free beer. 

The Soundless Deep is...fine. Not that Dylan wants to pay attention, really. But he recognizes some of the songs from the album he paid for, and they’ve got some pretty catchy hooks — sue him. On top of that, Connor looks good. He seems to have chemistry with all the guys; the bassist in particular. Dylan thinks his name is Leon. Leon grins at Connor a lot, and Connor stares at him openly, which makes sense, considering Leon looks like _that_. With his floppy hair and his ripped arms and his perfectly-maintained-but-not-overtly-maintained beard. Actually, all the guys in Connor’s new band are hot, because go figure, hot attracts hot. It’s a law of physics.

Not that Dylan would ever, under _any_ circumstances, still admit to any physical attraction to Connor whatsoever. Especially since Connor is still, like, that very niche, very particular brand of hot most people overlook. Dylan has just enough pride to be cordial around him, which is not nearly enough to admit he was ever attracted to him. Especially back in high school, with his Acutane and his cracking voice and his weird mouth.

Connor’s voice always blows him away, though, despite himself. You’d never expect it, coming from a honky-looking kid like Connor. Dylan remembers the shock of hearing it for the first time, back in junior high, when his voice was still cracking half the time. When they first started out, it was Dylan’s songs and Connor’s voice that got them noticed, and they won every battle of the bands and played three consecutive proms, despite being just off-beat enough to be considered a cry from Blink-182. No grudge could ever erase the effect Connor’s voice has on Dylan. It wraps around you, like...like a hug, like a flannel blanket, like that feeling of just _belonging_. It’s inviting and punk; sweet enough to make you believe all the tender words he sings, raw enough to make you feel his pain.

It’s familiar enough to tug at something deep inside Dylan, to evoke a feeling that he allows himself to lean into, just for tonight.

 

* * *

 

Dylan loves touring. Going on the road, getting to play the music they work so hard on in front of a crowd of kids who eat it up, who tell them they _help_ them - it’s the best part of what they do. It doesn’t take long before the calluses on Dylan’s fingertips are twice as pronounced as they were prior to starting, or for Dylan to have to start taking vocal rest days, when they play back-to-back nights, but it’s worth it. Touring is worth every sore throat, every sleepless night, every week away from loved ones back home. Hitting the road is a grind unlike any other, and they haven’t always had it cushy, with a big tour bus. Back when they started, it was just Dylan, Connor, and Mitch, piled with their gear in one of their mom’s SUVs. Dylan remembers their first American show, in Boston. The show that officially made them an international band. They only got bigger from there.

Touring is also sometimes like an alternate reality, or parallel universe where the most completely random stuff that wouldn’t ordinarily happen, under regular circumstances, happens.

One night, Dylan and the guys are fucking around backstage after their set. He’s shirtless, because he and Mitch are playing strip ping-pong, with Willy moderating half-heartedly. It’s getting pretty heated, and Mitch is simultaneously pulling his shirt over his head and complaining about Will’s bias, when Auston Matthews from The Soundless Deep bursts into the room. He looks like he immediately forgot what he was going to say, and Dylan wants to chirp him for it, but a) they don’t know each other like that, and b) his gaze is raking over Mitch’s half-naked body in a way that’s laughable all on its own. Mitch lights up when he sees Auston, completely oblivious to the way Auston is very much eating him alive with his eyes. It’s a prime opportunity for Dylan to be part-good friend, part-shit disturber and smack the ping-pong ball across the table to an unsuspecting Mitch.  
  
“Ten points for off-side; take off your pants,” Dylan says.  
  
“What does that even mean?” Mitch mutters and shakes his head, but starts unbuttoning his skinny jeans anyway.

Willy snorts. "It means what it means, Marner,"  
  
Auston, visibly shaken, clears his throat. “Not to, uh, interrupt, guys, but — ”  
  
“What’s up?” Mitch asks, tilting his head slightly and using that very genuine, non-dickbag inflection of his voice that he puts on with people he wants to like him. Maybe not so oblivious, then.

It turns out Your Overtime Heroes want everyone to get back on stage for the last song of the encore for gang vocals. Unfortunately, it means Dylan doesn’t get to observe the chill, impenetrable Auston Matthews have a stroke at the sight of Mitch in his state of undress, but it does mean that he literally gets to be on the same stage as guys whose posters plastered his bedroom wall in high school, so. Compromise.

The stage isn't nearly big enough to fit everyone comfortably, so there's a lot of climbing onto amps and leaning on each other, but it's _sick_ . Dylan is on a stage five feet away from Actual Punk Legend Sidney Crosby, who earlier that night asked how Dylan was liking the tour in the same tone of voice someone would use to ask _how are you liking our bed and breakfast_. That actually happened, and this is _actually happening_ , and everything feels like one giant fucking fever dream.

Everyone joins in to shout the choruses, jumping around the stage, sharing mics, swinging arms over each other’s shoulders. Tyler shares Jamie Benn’s mic and Dylan sticks to their side of the stage with Willy, to avoid Connor. In all the madness, Mitch climbs onto Auston’s back, and looks entirely comfortable there, considering they barely know each other. Patrice Bergeron and Brad Marchand spray the crowd with water bottles and every few lines they stop singing just to hear the crowd fill in the words. Dylan grabs a handful of spare picks from side stage and starts tossing them into the audience.

During the bridge, everyone stops playing, except for Shea Weber on the kick drum. Sid shouts “This your wouldn't be possible without these fucking guys and everyone busting their asses off backstage,” and the crowd explodes. It makes the cut for one of the top 3 best moments of Dylan’s life.

The following night, Tyler accosts them immediately after their performance.

“Hey,” he says, patting Willy on the chest, “we’re doing the gang vocals at the end again. Jamie thought it was wicked.”

“Dope.” Dylan replies.

Tyler Seguin and Jamie Benn are the band scene’s worst-kept secret. The song everyone piled on stage to sing last night was one they wrote together, for god’s sake. If Dylan weren’t still a bit bitter about anything remotely related to love or happiness, he’d probably think it was really cute. What struggling gay punk rocker doesn’t dream of meeting their true love on tour and achieving massive success with co-written songs? Dylan wants to puke.

When Dylan gets back on the bus, he heads straight for his bunk, grabs his pillow, and screams into it.

 

* * *

 

The bit continues, and becomes a ritual — everyone coming onstage for that final song. From there, it morphs into people singing different parts of the song each night. Tyler and Jamie start the first verse, since they wrote it, and everyone else takes turns with the rest. Dylan's been careful to make sure he's not singing back and forth on a chorus with Connor. That would be too weird, he thinks.

Slowly, the tour starts to level itself out. Dylan gets into the rhythm, feels his body acclimate to stupid long nights and endless drives down same-looking highways. The other guys all move around each other in the way they distinctly do when they’re on the road. Space and boundaries are respectively respected and trampled, there’s always at least one Will Ferrell movie on the TV in the back lounge at all times, and they still make an effort to have team dinner at the closest McDonald’s every third night. They’ve done this hundreds of times. They’re — for real lack of a better word — pros.

At the same time, what’s controllable within their environment, on their bus is one thing. But interacting with other bands, what happens in the green rooms or on stage, or all the other moments of togetherness, that’s a whole other beast.

For example, they’re at a bar after the show one night, a dimly-lit, quiet place a block down from the venue. Everyone’s mingling, having a good time, being all too loud. Dylan knows it's irrational and cliché, to feel alone in a room full of people — people he knows — and yet he can't help but dwell on how empty he feels inside.

Dylan knows he's lucky. He's so fucking lucky that he can hardly wrap his head around it half the time. So many people — hundreds of thousands of people — try and bust their asses trying to get where he is and hardly anyone makes it. Especially in this scene, this off-shoot, not-quite-popular music scene, where musicians rely on fans and Twitter to promote themselves, it’s so hard to get marginally recognized, but he and Willy and Mitch — they made it. They made it without Connor, in spite of Connor, in parallel with Connor. It should be exhilarating, and most days, it is. But this emptiness, and the failed ways Dylan has tried to fill it, that part is an anchor that keeps threatening to sink him.

Tyler's at his side, suddenly, handing him a beer. The two stand side by side, observing the loud crowd, and Tyler speaks first.

“Feeling pensive?”

Dylan shrugs. His fingers twitch. He wishes he had a cigarette.

“Lotta history with you two, eh?” Tyler asks, nodding at Connor, and what is this, twenty questions?

Dylan says as much out loud and it makes Tyler laugh around his beer.

“I mean, obviously there's history, right?”

Reluctantly, Dylan answers, “Yup.” He doesn't wanna get into this right now.

Tyler’s incessant though, and he's got a glint in his eye that says he won't drop this easily. Dylan takes several large gulps of his beer, feeling it heavy and warm in his stomach. Across the bar, Connor is playing pool with Leon and Sidney Crosby. Go figure.

“It sucked, when he left,” Dylan says, and that's all he's really comfortable telling Tyler right now, considering he's only just getting past the whole hero-worship thing and starting to see him as kind of a buddy.

“Yeah, I bet.” Tyler answers, and thankfully, he leaves it at that.

Before Tyler gets a chance to pry any more, Mitch stumbles over to them, beaming. Willy’s not far behind.

“Shots.” He says, at the same time as Willy says, “Karaoke.”

Shots turn out to be both a blessing and a huge mistake, because shots means Dylan ends up spilling more of his guts to Tyler.

“It was like we didn’t matter anymore,” Dylan slurs, while Tyler nods along diligently. “I fuckin’ missed him, and we didn’t even matter.”

“That's rough, dude, but look at you now. You, like, made it,” Tyler answers, “you’re touring with us so you must’a made it.”

Dylan laughs, louder than he was really planning on doing, because Tyler’s right. Mitch holds onto his forearm and Willy’s got himself draped over Dylan’s back and they must make a fucking sight, the three of them.

“Aww,” Tyler says, “I remember when my friends loved me like that.” He proceeds to turn around and yell, to nobody and everybody in particular, “Beau, when was the last time you loved me like that?”  
  
It gets the guys from TBLS to come over and instinctually form some kind of huddle around Tyler. It also gets most of the other guys in the room to stare at Willy, Mitch, and Dylan. Dylan’s past the point of really caring, besides making the observation, so he’s unfazed.

“I’m only gonna say it once. _Karaoke_.” Will says.

Dylan laughs, and that’s the second time he’s done that tonight, so not everything sucks. “Wills, you’ve been saying _karaoke_ all night.”

“Yeah, and it’s _still_ a good idea.” Willy moans. He extracts himself from Dylan and immediately turns to the next closest person, who happens to be Auston Matthews. “Tell me karaoke is a good idea.”

Auston looks only a little shell-shocked, which is better than most people who find themselves suddenly accosted by drunk, dramatic Willy Nylander. “Uh, it’s a good idea?”

Apparently unsatisfied, Willy spins around to the second closest person around. Thankfully, it’s Zach. Zach has dealt with the lot of their drunken asses so many times and in so many places, he’s an expert. He grips at Willy’s waist, because Willy’s an unnervingly tactile drunk.

“Karaoke, Zachy,” he whines, “karaoke and tattoos.”

Auston is kind of lingering, which is fine but, like, get in line buddy. Mitch is always the first one to buddy up on tour, and Dylan doesn’t even chirp him about it anymore because it makes sense. His whole aura is infectious, and it draws in a whole wide range of different people, whether they know it or not. It’s just science. Or maybe it’s just a drummer thing. Either way, Willy picks up pretty fast when they hit the road, and Dylan does alright, but Mitch is always the first to make friends. Or, more accurately, to have people aggressively try to befriend him. Apparently Auston is one of those people. It’s a little sweet, actually, because Auston seems to be waiting for Dylan and Willy and Zach to finish talking to Mitch before making any kind of move. Dylan decides to take matters into his own hands, and slinks up to Auston.

“You should talk to him.” he says, and Auston kind of grunts in response, but Dylan is too drunk to be offended.

He actually cheers when Auston decisively walks up to Mitch and starts talking to him. Dylan turns his attention Connor, because he can’t seem to do anything else, these days. He’s looking really good tonight. Dylan noticed that he’s got kind of a tan lingering from the summer, and it makes his hair look blonder. There’s a new confidence behind his movements that was kind of lacking when they were friends. It looks like he can just be himself around his new bandmates, like he’s completely open with them, and good for him, Dylan guesses. He's staring, he knows, but it's like he can't help it. To take his eyes away feels like betrayal, and he's sheltered enough by the din of the bar and the crowd of their friends to feel not entirely creepy.

It’s still mostly creepy.

 

* * *

 

Dylan’s only mildly surprised when he stumbles out of his bunk to find Auston in their front lounge in the morning. There are two large coffees on the table, one in front of him, the other in front of Mitch. Dylan grumbles about nobody getting him coffee, but Mitch — the angel he is — offers him a sip of his. 

“We have a bet going,” Auston says, once Dylan’s had enough of Mitch’s coffee to feel at least vaguely human, “what was Connor like in high school?”

Mitch bursts out laughing, and it makes Dylan smile, a little, because nostalgia is a fucking bitch. He turns his head to look at Dylan. “His hair, oh my god. It was, like, down to his shoulders and it was awful.”

“Mitchy, you had a mullet.” Dylan replies, intent on embarrassing Mitch at least a little in front of Auston, for the hell of it.

Auston's grin breaks across his whole face. It’s embarrassingly obvious that Mitch is the only one he’s focusing on.

Willy pokes his head out from his bunk curtain. “I’m so glad I didn’t know you then.”

Mitch throws a shoe at him, but he’s too far away, so it misses. “Oh really, Will? You looked like someone from ABBA before we rescued you.”

“ABBA is classic and untouchable,” Willy shouts back, “don’t pretend you don’t know all the words to Mamma Mia.”

“Now that I’ve gotta see,” Auston says, and Mitch beams at him while presumably gathering up the courage to make a move.

“Gee, I wonder where you could’ve see that, Auston?” Willy asks, jumping down from his bunk and tugging on a pair of skinny jeans that Dylan swears aren’t his own. “I don’t know, maybe karaoke?”

Mitch laughs, and leans into Auston’s side in a way that indicates to anyone watching that Mitch has not only boarded the train, but that it’s left the station and it’s already so far gone. It’s too much, all of a sudden. Seeing Mitch and Auston act so cozy around each other, knowing that Connor probably knows Auston’s on their bus, the whole other side of Connor that’s a total stranger to them.

“Get a room,” Dylan says, kind of flat, then excuses himself from the bus and faces the bracing cold alone. He takes a lap around the parking lot, before sitting down on a picnic table, feet on the bench. He pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, though he barely feels like smoking.

The wind keeps whipping Dylan’s hair in his face, and it hurts. October wind is fucking brutal sometimes, and now he can't even smoke in peace without everyone trying to ruin his life. He can’t even get through one fucking morning without thinking about Connor. This tour wasn’t a good idea — point blank. It’s too soon and he wasn’t ready, even though he thought he was, even though Mitch told him he’d be fine. His heart is still a little bitch. Dylan takes a long drag of his cigarette and grinds it against the brick wall of the venue before the wind can knock out his light again.

 

* * *

 

On the drive from Quebec City to Montreal, Dylan feels like he’s about to lose his mind from boredom. The wifi on the bus is the spottiest fucking garbage he’s ever dealt with, and they’ve already twice gone through all the DVDs they thought to bring with them. The circumstances basically force Dylan to use his data, which so won’t be good for his phone bill, but he’s desperate for some form of entertainment besides watching Brownie and Mo try to play poker when neither of them are entirely clear on the rules. It means he winds up on YouTube, scrolling through his subscriptions. It also means he comes across an interview between AP mag and The Soundless Deep. Without really thinking it through, Dylan taps the thumbnail and starts watching.

The interviewer turns to face Connor directly and asks, “What’s it like touring with your old band? Will fans get to see a reunion, do you think?”

Dylan’s breath hitches.

“Obviously, they’re really cool guys. We’ve known each other a long time and I wouldn’t be where I am musically or as a person without having been in 10 Minute Misconduct. I don’t know if we’ll have a reunion — that’s up to them — but it’s been super great seeing them again.”

Dylan drags his finger along the time bar and replays Connor’s answer two, three, four times. He sounds genuine. It’s not an apology, not at all, but it’s oddly satisfying to hear. His words are maybe a bit of a stretch, since Dylan, at least, hasn’t been very friendly to Connor or any of his bandmates besides Auston since tour started. But it means something. It's a sign. Like maybe Dylan should just bury the hatchet, already.

The bus finally pulls the corner into the venue parking lot, and everyone climbs out of their respective hiding places to stretch their legs before the show. There’s already a small line in front of the door, even though it’s a Tuesday and most of these kids undoubtedly have school. Dylan takes his time debarking the bus and takes a few laps around the block in silence before settling on a bench at the edge of the parking lot. He’s trying to have a smoke in peace when Mitch comes out of nowhere and tugs on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

It’s an indication of his Best Friend Instincts that he says, “You saw that video, eh? The interview Connor did?”

Dylan considers lying. Instead, he answers, “Yeah, I saw.”

“What did you think?”

Mitch looks at him expectantly. Dylan’s been in love with Connor for as long as he can remember, and his praise still makes Dylan’s heart plummet straight to his guts, but that’s probably not the answer Mitch is looking for. Dylan blows his smoke out.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“You’re so full of shit,” Mitch replies, through a shit-eating grin. “You care so much.”

“I do not,” Dylan insists, although he knows from the way Mitch is looking at him that he doesn’t believe him.

“You gotta face this at some point, man. I'm not trying to be a dick, but you know it’s true.”

Dylan sighs and takes another drag. “I’m working on it.”

“Whatever you say,” Mitch answers. “Auston says the other guys think you guys should patch it up.”

“You know, I don’t know how much I love everyone on this fucking tour knowing our business.”

“Hey, you're the one who decided there still _is_ business. Just talk to Davo.”

Dylan flinches slightly at the old nickname. It’s one thing to get over someone, it’s another to get over someone who let you call them _Davo_ for eight years. He nods reluctantly. Mitch, looking satisfied, takes that as a cue to keep talking about Auston.

Dylan kicks the gravel in the parking lot and listens to Mitch talk about Auston’s compassion and his arms. It’s easy to do that, since Mitch is borderline obsessed and can talk about him until they have to start getting ready for their set tonight. Sometimes, Dylan forgets that Mitch picked Dylan’s side. Not that there really were sides to the whole matter, since Connor was the one who wanted out of the band, but. Connor left Mitch, too. So it was weird, and angering, seeing Mitch get over it so quickly, and to feel Mitch want to resolve everything, want everything to get better so badly. He’s a hell of a better friend than Dylan was, in that situation.

 

* * *

 

They’ve got an extra day in Montreal, so Dylan decides to blow off some steam in the parking lot in the morning. He's not really sure what he's doing until his shirt is off and he's about 75 push-ups into a mind-numbing workout. Working out isn't really something he used to do — _ever_. He's always been on the lanky side, the kind of genes and metabolism that let him eat and drink as much as he pleased with no physical consequences. So it's been a weird turn of events — this recent taking to early morning workouts, whether it’s in the form of strength training or just running until he feels his heart about to give out. It helps him cope, more or less. There's just too much going on, too much out of his control, and at least the exercise is a way for him to release all his pent up frustration in a healthy way. Dylan likes to think it counteracts all the binge drinking and chain smoking. Connor hates that he smokes, always has. Dylan wonders what he’d think of the working out.

It’s, like, some sick plot twist the universe has conjured up in the narrative of his life that Connor chooses that exact moment to walk through the heavy metal back door of the theatre and stumble directly upon Dylan’s personal fucking P90x routine. Dylan prays, begs the universe and the stars and several gods for them to be interrupted, for Connor’s phone to start ringing, or for someone to emerge from one of the busses and dispel the tension, or, better yet, for Connor to just turn on his heel and leave.

None of those things happen.

Connor seems to be biting back a smile. And considering the extent of their interactions this tour, that’s new.

Dylan’s not blind, and he’s self-conscious and self-deprecating enough to know that working out hasn’t exactly shredded him into some ripply-muscled Adonis. He’s still got a small beer gut, because no amount of cardio can counteract the 24s he and Mitch pound back. But he’s also rather vain, so, yeah, his shoulders are looking pretty sick. His ass is nothing to write home about, mind you, but he’s got decent thighs and his biceps are on their way, too. It’d be pointless to pretend he doesn’t hope Connor notices.

“This is…different.”

Hesitant as Dylan is to admit it, Mitch is right. The only reason there’s business is because Dylan decided there still was business. And virtually nothing will erase the hurt, so why not erase the, well, _business_. Dylan refuses to be the awkward, grumbling, bitter one anymore. Not after that video he watched last night.

So he doesn’t say anything about how it’s been a while since Connor’s been privy to his daily routines, so he’d have no way of knowing what is or isn’t different. He just shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes I need to just get the blood pumping,” he says, because hell if he doesn’t know how to turn a terrible loss for words into an easily-construed boner reference. He’s been hanging around Tyler too much.

“Aren’t you cold?” Connor asks.

Dylan shrugs. “I don’t really feel the cold when I’m sweating my guts out.”

He’s tempted to tell Connor that his hatred keeps him warm, but he bites back the comment.

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

So that’s it, then. They’re talking. Mitch will be happy.

“How... are things?” Connor asks, and Dylan would feel more uncomfortable about talking to him if only Connor’s voice hadn’t cracked twice in that single sentence alone.

“Things...are,” Dylan replies, the kind of non-answer that Connor probably still hates. Instead, Connor laughs, sounding about as nervous and awkward as Dylan feels. At least Dylan is, like, sweat slick and shirtless, the facsimile of peak physicality. He wonders if Connor feels weird that Dylan’s, like, a jock now.

Connor’s like an emo poster child right now, in a denim jacket and beanie, standing with his arms crossed in a pair of Converse Dylan swears he’s had since high school. He looks like he wants to say something. Dylan schools his face into perfect indifference, forcing actual kindness to soften the edges. Connor takes two steps towards the road, then spin on his heel.

“Can we…do you want to…catch up?” he asks.

Dylan's got a few options, here.

\- Pretend he didn’t hear Connor over the sound of the howling wind,

\- Shake his head in a way that could either be interpreted as a yes or a no, and leave it up to Connor,

\- Say yes.

They all play out in his mind like clockwork. And yet, that fucking hatchet. Tyler’s right, they did so much without Connor that this should barely be an issue anymore. Plus, it’ll make Mitch happy if he says yes, and that’s important, too.

“Sure,” Dylan answers. He means it, too.

Who knows — they could really patch things up. They could even be _friends_ again, Dylan thinks, later that evening, while he and Willy are chilling with Mo at the merch table. There may always be that piece of his heart kind of missing whenever he recounts the aftermath of Connor leaving their band, but holding onto all that anger and sadness for so long isn’t healthy. Dylan’s at least clear-headed enough to acknowledge that. So, if Connor’s game, then — yeah, he’s gonna be the best damn second-chance friend he can be.

“Are you okay?” Willy asks, presumably noticing the fire suddenly alight in Dylan’s eyes.

“I’m fine, dude, I’m fucking peachy,” Dylan says, and he genuinely means it.

Willy doesn’t get to press the issue, because a group of girls who look about fourteen comes up to the table and shyly ask Mo for the shirts they want. They keep shooting glances at Willy and Dylan, and this is the part that makes Dylan feel like a rockstar, more than anything else. Not that he’s kidding himself thinking he’s any more important than he really is, but when he asks the girls if he can sign anything for them, and Willy offers to take a picture, their eyes light up. They all shriek, and it’s such a good, pure fucking feeling, talking and connecting with kids who listen to their music, that Dylan gets a full eight hours of sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Dylan wastes no time and goes straight up to TSD’s bus and knocks on their metal door, galvanized.

Leon opens the door, and Dylan tries to ignore his very real Disney-prince-with-sleeves-and-an-eyebrow-ring vibes, because being jealous of the guys in Connor’s band is definitely not a good start to being Connor’s friend again.

“Is Connor here?” Dylan asks. Leon smirks, and — _wow_ — that’s disarming.

“Con!” He calls, not taking his eyes off Dylan, “your boy is here to see you.”

Dylan shakes off being called Connor’s “boy”, but he almost certainly feels some type of way after such prolonged eye contact with Leon Draisaitl.

Connor replaces Leon at the entrance of the bus, looking sleep-mussed and grumpy. It’s probably a good sign that he smiles sleepily when he sees Dylan. “Hey,” he greets.

“Wanna get breakfast? There’s a Tim’s down the street.”

The lucky part of touring Canada is that there is almost guaranteed to be a Tim’s down the street, no matter where they are.

“Sure,” Connor answers, sliding on a pair of Vans and tugging a Fall Out Boy hoodie over his head and following Dylan through the parking lot.

“So does Leon always... look like that?” Dylan asks, partly to break the ice, partly because he’s actually curious.

Connor huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s the worst.”

The walk to Tim’s is mostly quiet. Dylan whips out his phone to text Willy a few times, just to keep himself from glancing sidelong at Connor, hoping to meet his eyes. When they get there, it’s not too busy inside, just a few old people and some tired-looking employees. Dylan orders first — a double-double and an obnoxiously large muffin — and considers paying for Connor. He ultimately decides against it.

Connor picks a table in the back corner. It’s pretty close to the bathroom, but nobody else is around, so Dylan figures it’s not all that bad.

He clears his throat. “We should… fix where we left off.”

“Yeah,” Connor nods, “where we left off wasn't so great.”

Connor probably wouldn't admit to missing him, but Dylan won't be the first to say it, either. This is enough, for now; huddling in the corner of a Tim’s, sipping bitter coffee and picking at a banana nut muffin - some kind of truce. It was neither of their faults, really, as much as Dylan likes to fork all the blame on Connor. What happened was weird and inevitable and Dylan can either be bitter or be better, so. Might as well at least try.

“Maybe…” Dylan says hesitantly, “maybe we can just be friends again.”

Connor's quiet for a moment, and Dylan worries he's said the wrong thing. That he jumped into the whole _friends again_ thing too soon. Finally, Connor says, “Yeah, okay,” and he smiles and it feels like a punch straight to Dylan’s guts, “let’s do that.”

“I guess we have a lot to catch up on,” Dylan says, stating the obvious.

Admitting he was in the wrong for shutting Connor out and completely closing himself off to the possibility of reconciliation still doesn’t feel like something Dylan’s capable of doing out loud. Capable of _saying_ instead of singing. Maybe he’ll write a song about it, someday. God knows Connor’s already given him enough songwriting material to last several lifetimes.

Connor takes a bite of his hash brown and starts talking. And talking and talking. And Dylan, he missed the sound of Connor’s voice, its dumb lilting Ontario accent and the way it still cracks when he gets excited. So he lets Connor tell him about the guys and their music and their vision, and that one time he and Auston got locked in a bathroom in a club in Berlin. Dylan listens, and he pokes in with his own stories, and, well, they catch up.

The weird trance state of the moment is broken when Connor’s phone starts vibrating. Dylan looks away while Connor checks it, and then looks sheepishly at Dylan.

“Soundcheck,” he explains, “I should get back.”

“Of course,” Dylan answers. He watches Connor carefully dispose of his coffee cup and breakfast wrappers in the appropriate recycling bins and shuffle out unassumingly. It makes his chest tight in four different places. The thing is, his heart is not equipped to process all the things Connor McDavid makes him feel, and that's weird and inevitable in and of itself.

 

* * *

 

At the show later, Dylan sings _Thursday Night_ acoustic. It’s probably the most vulnerable song on their setlist, the one that’s most obviously about Connor. Their last band meeting was on a Thursday, after all. As a full band, the song is quick-paced and intense; a basic chord-progression that kind of juxtaposes the emotion of the lyrics. Dylan’s sure he’s not the only songwriter who’s hidden behind electric guitars when it comes to expressing his inner turmoil. If anything, singing it acoustic a signal to Willy and Mitch that he’s doing better, because he also doesn’t like to sing acoustic in bigger venues. His voice isn’t Connor-great, but he inflects it in a way that makes him sound pretty dope and punk, and he’s got a decent range. The venue has great acoustics, at least, and the kids in the crowd are the hungry kind that reinforce the magic of playing in a punk band. They shout the words along with him, and fill up the space with their voices when Dylan pointedly stops singing. Dylan's always loved having music to drown out all the hurt; it’s always been his crutch. And yet tonight, nothing hurts. He looks back at Willy and Mitch before the final chorus, and maybe they don’t know something’s changed, that Dylan feels this monumental shift inside him, but maybe they do.

During the closer, Connor deliberately pulls Dylan into a half-hug while they belt the second verse together. This closeness, being pressed against each other, it's only made possible by the adrenaline of being on stage, of having hundreds of witnesses. Privately, it wouldn't work; it's too soon for this familiarity off-stage, but Dylan doesn't mind so much. He missed Connor’s body, despite its not being nearly as lanky as Dylan remembers. They share a mic, and they’re singing together again and it feels so right. This is exactly why it hurt so much when Connor left, Dylan realizes. They were so right together, and Connor, he —

Dylan lets that thought go, just for tonight.

Instead, he turns his attention to Mitch and Auston, who are about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. Mitch has been practically floating after him at every occasion, which is new for him. Usually, Mitch is the guy who ends up with seven new best friends after a tour; he never typically fixates on a single person. Obviously, everyone notices. When the song reaches the bridge, Mitch runs at full speed across the stage and launches himself bridal-style into Auston’s arms. They're both wearing matching idiot smiles. Willy elbows Dylan in the ribs so hard it almost hurts, and when there’s a break in the vocals, he shouts “Use protection,” into the mic. It’s barely audible over the guitars and the screaming audience, but Mitch hears, and he flips them off.

 

* * *

 

Connor starts hanging out on their bus.

Dylan’s still not sure how he feels about it, to be honest, but he’s keeping an open mind. It’s tense sometimes, because there are gaps in their friendship — huge, monumental gaps. Sometimes, Dylan forgets that Connor wasn’t there for the time Mitch ate an entire bowl of ramen in under 2 minutes in Tokyo, or that Connor’s never shotgunned a beer against Willy. Or that Connor hasn’t even been the predominant Connor in his life for the past few years; it’s been Brownie. It’s as though Dylan now has to remind himself that he and Connor haven’t been friends recently, when in the past, their distance felt enormous and all-consuming and impossible to ignore.

 

* * *

 

So, they have to re-learn how to act around each other. It isn’t something Dylan could have ever prepared for.

One afternoon, Dylan’s painting his nails black. It’s a thing he started doing a few weeks after Connor left — either as a way to express his sadness or to truly commit to his emo persona, Dylan can’t remember anymore. He pointedly does a haphazard job of it, just ’cause he likes the way it looks once it’s good and chipped. It’s kind of a dumb aesthetic point to get hung up about, but Dylan just likes it.

Usually, there’s someone else around on the bus, even just puttering around the back lounge, but not today. Today he and Connor are alone, and there’s, like, a frustrating amount of uncertainty about how the afternoon could unfold.

Connor decided to rifle through their limited DVD selection to pick something to watch. It turned out to be a bigger challenge than he apparently thought, because he’s been sprawled out on the floor in front of the bottom shelf of the DVD rack for the past ten minutes.

He looks up at Dylan. “I’ve never understood people who paint their nails,” he says, suddenly, “It just chips and you have to take it off later. What’s the point.”

Dylan shrugs. It sounds like Connor’s talking in metaphors, but Dylan remembers that he’s always sort of talked like this. “You’re just not emo enough for this, Davo. Accept it. Move on.”

Connor, still as embarrassingly competitive as ever, springs up and pries the bottle from Dylan’s hand. He fiddles with the brush for a second, and then paints the nail on his left ring finger.

“There,” he says, pleased with himself, “happy?”

Dylan’s smile spreads, and he has to actively tamp down the swooping feeling in his stomach. “Yes.” He answers. In turn, he paints every nail except his left ring finger. Connor laughs when he notices.

“Good, we match.”

Dylan watches The Soundless Deep’s set from side stage that night, eyes fixated on Connor’s one black fingernail and the matching place on Dylan’s hand left blank. There’s a symbolism there that he wants to pry apart for hours and hours. Brothers for life, Connor always throwing himself out on a limb for Dylan, olive branches, all that. It’s painful as hell, because as much as he tried, Dylan never quit loving the everliving shit out of Connor McDavid. Even through all that time he felt rejected and angry and, really, what does that say about him?

It’s not that Dylan wants to publicly announce their reconciliation, but, well, he kind of does. Sometimes it’s hard to gauge how much fans know — and Dylan’s definitely been caught off guard, surprised by just how much they know, just from Twitter and Livejournal and stuff. It’s a little eerie. So Dylan isn’t sure how much they know about Dylan and Connor’s feelings towards one another, but he feels compelled for some reason to reassure fans that they’re friends again. He can’t just tweet it, of course — that would be pretty pathetic. So instead, he texts Connor asking for a favour and hopes the fans piece it together themselves.

During their set, Dylan makes sure to give himself enough time between songs to speak to the crowd. He wants to make sure he enunciates. He wants to make sure they hear him.

“I’m gonna take it back to an old song now,” Dylan says, lips pressed against the mic. He clocks the wheels turning in some of the kids’ minds, their eyes lighting up, “back when our band had another guy in it. He’s a really awesome guy and, in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s actually on this tour, and he’s gonna help us out with this one tonight. This is _Back to Last Tuesday_ — ”

Dylan starts his bass riff and the crowd goes absolutely fucking batshit when Connor emerges from stage right with a microphone in hand and starts off the vocals. Having him up on stage with them, performing together again, it’s all fucking surreal. This shouldn’t be happening. Dylan counts three separate people crying, and it’ll always be unbelievable — how much they mean to some people. Connor’s standing up on amps and leaning into the crowd, circling the stage and every so often pressing into Dylan’s side with an arm around his shoulders. They’re both older, this time around, and that at least feels right. Like this was meant to happen, them reaping some kind of reward for growing up without each other. For growing up in spite of each other.

When the song is over, the kids are still screaming so loudly Dylan can’t even hear what Connor’s shouting at him. He can, however, register Connor lunging himself at Dylan in a fierce but altogether too short hug. He hugs Willy and Mitch, too, before heading off stage, and Dylan feels slightly woozy and cold without him here.

Dylan has to come down from the performance. After the show, he curls up on the couch in the back lounge and just lets himself process everything. Unsurprisingly, none of the guys let him.

“You’re moping,” Brownie says. Dylan wishes his powers of observation weren’t so astute. He also sometimes wishes Brownie wasn’t their light tech, because as great as he is at that, he’s still just a fuckwad who can’t let Dylan live sometimes.

“I’m not moping, you’re just a fuckwad.”

“You know, I’d be more inclined to believe you if you didn’t use words like _fuckwad_.”

“Is it because of Connor?” Mo asks, and Dylan used to think Mo was averse to conflict, but apparently not anymore.

“We need to have a séance,” Mitch says.

Willy emerges from his bunk almost entirely naked, which isn’t really anything new, but Zach averts his eyes and stares intently at his lap, which is. All of Dylan’s friends are idiots, apparently. Every last one of them.

“Séance? Those are for dead people. Who died?” Willy asks, confused.

“Not a séance, moron,” Brownie says, exasperated, “a... like, a pow-wow.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“Team meeting,” Mo supplies, “I don’t think it should be a pow-wow.”

“Cool.” Willy says. He perches himself on the arm of the sofa, right next to Zach, who still hasn’t looked up from his feet.

“We really don’t need to be having a team meeting or a pow-wow right now,” Dylan groans. “Maybe a séance, but only after I’ve killed you all.”

“Rude,” Mitch scoffs.

Objectively speaking, nobody in their crew is nice, since nobody knows how to fucking leave Dylan alone. Willy’s maybe the chillest one on their bus, almost especially because Willy pierced his lip at Dylan’s instruction in order to sell the punk rock persona. But also Willy has, like, no filter whatsoever and also has this penchant for tighty-whities and fully displaying them to anyone who’ll look. Mitch, well, Dylan’s known Mitch his whole life. They’re the kind of best friends who have never taken any shit from each other, and have always just skimmed past the niceties of leaving each other the fuck alone. Naturally, Mitch is spearheading this endeavour.

Dylan makes a jerk-off motion in their general direction. “Can we please just go to the bar now?”

Going to the bar means everyone sort of goes their separate ways. Like clockwork, Auston appears at Mitch’s side, guiding him away with a hand at the small of his back. Mo and Brownie have become really tight with some of the other crew guys, and they all go shoot pool together. And Willy’s like a social goddamn butterfly, floating between different groups and conversations in any given night. It’s normal for tour, of course. But Dylan doesn’t mind it all that much, tonight. He finds Connor lingering at the bar, talking to Brad Marchand — who insisted they call him _Marchy_ , and whose voice Connor used to try and imitate when they were first starting out. It’s still one of those things that compels Dylan to pinch himself, for the hell of it.

When Connor notices him, he immediately leaves Marchy to join Dylan on the other end of the bar. It makes Dylan feel dizzy, like he can’t quite believe Connor’s doing things like this on purpose again.

“What’s up?” Connor asks, shouting a little to be heard over the loud music.

“Well, everyone on my fucking bus just tried to have a séance.” Dylan answers.

“What? Who died?”

“Nobody. But I think Mitch thinks we’re hopeless,” Dylan says, taking a swig from his beer, “he thinks we’ll never get our heads out of our asses long enough to talk.”

Connor hums, looking thoughtful. “Well, are we?” he asks. “Hopeless?”

“God, no.” Dylan answers. “We talked. We’re talking now. Definitely not hopeless.”

“Oh is that what we’re doing? We’re talking?”

Dylan grins and sees Connor grin back from the corner of his eye. They drink in silence for a moment.

“He’s one to talk,” Connor says, breaking the silence, “he thinks _we’re_ hopeless? What about him and Auston?”

“Yeah, what’s even going on with them? Honestly, leave it to Mitch to dish out advice when he barely even opens up about his — ” Dylan refrains from saying _love life,_ because today has been a really Good Day, all things considered, and he doesn’t want to make this weird. “life.”

“I mean, they’re friends —”

“If _they’re_ friends, then I have no idea what that makes us.”

“Don’t be a tool,” Connor says, nudging him slightly, “we’re friends, too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan answers, “Okay, we’re friends.”

All the beer in the world couldn’t get Dylan to say what he really wants to say, which is that a weird, unsettled feeling that washes over him then, something keeping him from just savouring the moment. The banter, skirting around a conversation Dylan doesn’t know how to have — it feels incomplete, somehow, or too easy, or like Dylan was hoping for some alternative outcome.

They’ve been friends before, though. Some days it was impossible to forget, but some days,  Dylan struggled to remember the training wheels and science fair projects and middle school dances. The street hockey and sharing Harry Potter books and sneaking out to see their first concert. Conversations in dark rooms and playing their first gig and booking their first tour and signing their first record deal. A list of firsts and experiences Dylan was never able to keep track of and list, until he had to. They’ve been _best friends_ before. Brothers for life. And if everything hurt more because of that then it’s Dylan’s own damn fault for falling for his best friend, the oldest trick in the book, in the first place.

Dylan stuffs his hands into his pockets. He realizes then that he hasn’t had a smoke in over a week.

He goes to take a piss in the bathroom and catches Jamie and Tyler making out against the sink. Subtlety has never seemed like something Tyler could be capable of, but Dylan’s been oddly endeared to find out that Jamie Benn, who’s aloof as a motherfucker and on his own plane of punk rock existence, is just as bad. In fact, it’s Jamie who keeps his hands tugging at Tyler’s waist, even as Tyler turns around to greet Dylan.

“How’s it going, champ?” Tyler asks, and Dylan cringes fondly. Leave it to Tyler to talk like a dad while pinned to a sink in the bathroom of a crummy bar.

“Uh, fine.”

“Heard you and McD are back together — ” Tyler starts, and that in and of itself is enough to make Dylan’s complexion turn bright red without his permission.

He turns to the urinal, hoping to avoid anymore of Tyler’s prying. “It’s not like that.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Tyler replies, drawing out the sound, elbowing Jamie furiously.

“You’re so embarrassing.” Jamie laughs. It's enough to make Dylan suspect they have their own secret code.

“Am _not_.”

“Are too.”

“I'm not the one who wrote a song about Maryland,”

“ _Low Blow_ is not about Maryland —”

“Oh no, don't try to fool me, Jameson. I can read you like a book. Also, I was there! I was a participant!”

“What happened in Maryland?” Dylan asks, and then immediately regrets it when Tyler starts miming a blowjob and Jamie starts talking about a state fair. He grimaces, because thinking of Tyler and Jamie boning is a bit like thinking about your parents having sex — it's just — no. They're his tour dads. _No_.

Dylan takes the first opportunity to book it out of the bathroom. When he goes back out into the bar, Connor’s sitting by himself at a table with two drinks in front of him.

“One of these is for you,” Connor says, as Dylan takes a seat in the chair opposite him.

“Thanks,” Dylan answers, and takes a sip of the drink. It’s a rum and Coke, just like Connor’s always ordered.

“Apparently, there’s a fireworks show starting soon,” Connor says, nodding to the bartender. “No idea who wants to see fireworks in November, though.”

Dylan shrugs. “I’m down,” he answers.

They down their drinks and grab their coats and head out. There’s a small clearing a block and a half away, where a crowd is assembled around a group of sketchy-looking dudes with a shitton of fireworks.

“How legal is this?” Dylan asks.

“Didn’t ask,” Connor answers. Dylan laughs, shocked. “What?”

“You used to be _so_ paranoid about this shit.” Dylan replies.

Connor’s cheeks are really fucking pink all of a sudden, and maybe that’s just from the cold “Yeah, well. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Dude, are you serious? You’re the biggest worry wart I’ve ever _met_. You were terrible at sneaking out to shows, ’cause all you’d do was worry.” Dylan says, feeling nostalgic and easy.

“Okay, that’s not true —”

“Oh yeah? Remember when your mom caught us sneaking home after seeing The Faubourgs in junior year?” Dylan asks.

Connor cracks a smile and huffs a laugh. “Yeah, fine. She was ready to kill us,” he says, “she probably still wants to.”

There’s so much about Connor that Dylan remembers like it’s a part of him, too. A whole wealth of Connor McDavid trivia that Dylan knows by heart, that he’s been collecting for years. Connor used to be so damn self-conscious about his smile, because he thought his teeth made it look all wonky. And, to be fair, he wasn’t wrong, but what he never realized was how fucking beautiful his wonky-ass smile is. It’s funny: his mom always got so upset because he never smiled in his class pictures — never a real smile, anyway. Dylan missed that smile. A lot. It shines way brighter in person than on magazine covers, as much as that sounds like a second-rate Taylor Swift lyric.

“We gave our parents more heart attacks than they deserved.”

“Like when you and Ryan tried to have a show in your basement,” Connor says fondly, and he’s gazing out in the distance with some faraway look on his face. Dylan knows the one. “You…you thought it would be a good idea to invite the _whole school_ . You thought they’d all _fit_.”

Connor’s laughing openly, now — the hesitation from before is gone. Above their heads, the sketchy fireworks start exploding into the night sky.

“I didn’t think about the — ” Dylan’s saying, but Connor cuts him off.

“Logistics,” they both say, at the same time. Still, with that uncanny ability to read each other’s minds.

“It _was_ an epic party,” Dylan says.

“You know I wrote a song about that night, eh?”

Dylan smiles, and ordinarily he’d feel resentful, but not this time. “Yeah, Davo, I know.”

Connor looks at him, suddenly galvanized. It’s a weird look on him, Dylan thinks. He’s much more used to timid Connor.

“All those songs you wrote about heartbreak and angry shit, those were about me, weren’t they?”

Dylan doesn’t know when Connor clocked him, when he suddenly got good at confrontation, when he learned to speak without a tremor in his voice. Lots happened when they weren’t playing music together, Dylan figures. “Yeah,” he answers. The truth is freeing, but it also feels like he’s standing at the base of an insurmountably tall mountain, one he’s supposed to climb, and he can barely take the first step. “Like, yeah, it got super shitty when you left. And I didn’t really handle it well, but it’s chill.”

He resolutely doesn’t mention the benders and the string of blond floppy-haired dudes that he blew his way through. Or the days he couldn’t get out of bed. The way Mitch and Willy put him back together again.

“God, Stromer,” Connor says, expression tight. “You never talked to me. I just — I thought you were fine with it.”

“I mean, we stopped talking. I clearly wasn’t.”

Connor drops his gaze. He looks ashamed, which really isn’t as gratifying as it would have been even a few weeks ago.

“Hey, chin up,” Dylan replies. “I'm serious, don't look at me like that. I'm so much better now. _We’re_ better now.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there, and that I just left you like that.” Connor says.

Connor always took everything so seriously. Not that that's a character flaw by any means; he's got the work ethic of an insomniac and it pays off because his music is dope and he's achieving all the success he deserves. Dylan works hard, too, and Mitch, and Willy, but Dylan's always felt it necessary to placate some of Connor’s seriousness, help take him out of his own head. Dylan's always tasked himself with keeping Connor McDavid’s spirits light, and it's funny, how he still feels compelled to, to take the focus away from himself. He was so mad at Connor for so long, but he never hated him the way he wanted to. He could never bring himself that far.

“Stop apologizing, dude, we went through this. It was so long ago, and I…”

Dylan cuts himself off, suddenly unsure of what else to say. It’s quiet for a moment, like Connor’s still deciding whether or not to be sorry for everything. Stupidly, the only thing Dylan can focus on is the black nail polish on Connor’s finger.

“It was about the music. I wanted to try something else,” Connor says, even though Dylan still has trouble believing him. It’s just an easy thing to say — too easy for Connor to say. Connor wasn’t there; Dylan went through hell when he left, like nothing mattered anymore and it was going to be the end of their band and the end of their careers and Dylan can be a melodramatic fucker sometimes, but this was real. This was real and Connor can’t just say it was about the music because nothing has ever _just_ been about the music, not with them. Dylan’s been in love with Connor since before he could string together three chords on the bass, let alone wrap his mind around the concept of love.

Then, Dylan decides to fuck it. Fuck the pride and the fighting and the bitterness and the fucking fireworks, and he takes the two steps to close the gap between him and Connor. And.

“Fuck it,” Dylan breathes.

He doesn't have a game plan, here, he's acting on instinct — and if it's the instinct of his 15-year-old self, well, maybe that's not such a bad thing at this point. Dylan leans in, and Connor must do so too — because one minute they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder; the next, their lips are pressing together, slow and familiar, like they’ve done this before. Slotted together like some sick fucking joke, because of course kissing your best friend is a bad idea, but it’s an even worse idea when when your best friend kisses you back. Because he’s known you your entire life and even though you didn’t talk for years, even though you hardly feel like you deserve it, like he deserves it, you can still have this.

The kiss is over too soon. Connor pulls away, his swollen mouth still forming an _o_ shape. He looks stricken and confused — like maybe he can’t believe that just happened, and hey, that makes two of them. Neither of them say anything for a heartbeat, and it’s enough of an anticlimax that Dylan chooses to extract himself completely from Connor’s side and stand up.

“I’m — sorry,” Dylan says. At the very back of his mind, some faraway corner, he knows he’s not. But he has enough self-preservation instinct in him to know he should at least pretend to be, for Connor’s sake. “I guess this tour’s been messing with my head.”

That’s at least true. Dylan’s ventured through the entire spectrum of emotion these past few weeks.

Connor still doesn’t say anything, but he moves a hand to his lips. Dylan isn’t prepared to see what he does next, which will probably be to wipe any trace of Dylan away, so he mumbles an excuse and leaves. After things being strained for so long, Dylan can’t believe he’s the asshole who just made things weird.

 _sorry about that_ , he texts Connor — in some, like, _fit_ of bravery, _we ok_?

Connor texts back twenty-three minutes later. _We’re ok_.

 

* * *

 

All hell breaks loose when Mitch catches Auston in the theatre bathroom with some girl.

“What did you see?” Willy asks, after Mitch bursts into the bus looking paler than anyone in any given Hot Topic. He puts a blanket around Mitch, like he's treating him for shock.

“Enough.”

“We have to beat him up, right? Defend Mitch’s honour?” Brownie asks, and the other guys all nod furiously. Even Zach, the de facto voice of reason in any tour situation. It’s enough of a role-reversal that Dylan almost gets whiplash.

It’s as though their combined determination to get an eye for an eye triggers some kind of backwards state of calm in Mitch, because he tells them, “Guys, I’m fine, honestly. Water off a duck’s back.”

It’s a lie, obviously, because if that were the case, then Mitch would be the literal worst duck in the world. Nothing is rolling off his back with any remote degree of ease tonight, no matter what he says. Dylan always thought denial was a later stage of grief, but Mitch is maybe too shell-shocked to roll through the regular order.

That being said, the three of them pass Leon and Auston in the hallway on their way to the green room the next day, and Mitch goes bright red and rigid as a board. He barely makes it to the couch before his chest is heaving in that really painful, heart-hurting brand of crying. Mitch is all expression, a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy, and Dylan sees red watching him unravel like this. He pats Mitch’s knee, trying to be reassuring without being invasive. Willy goes to get him a bottle of water from the mini fridge. They lock eyes over Mitch’s back, and Willy mouths _murder_.

Willy and Dylan form a protective barrier around Mitch, the three of them even sticking together on stage during the closer. It works for a while, but not long enough — because tour is tour and inevitably, everyone ends up in each other's pockets no matter how hard you try to prevent it. This fact is made worse by all the times the three of them are forced to collectively avoid Auston. Dylan knows Mitch would _die_ if Sid or any of the older guys ever got wind of his drama, so he figures he should take the preemptive measure of talking to Connor about it.

Even if that means facing Connor again after their fucking _kiss_.

Connor, predictably trying to assuage everyone, play both angles. Between his former bandmate and his current bandmate, Dylan supposes Connor feels an obligation to defend Auston, and it's infuriating.

“Auston fucked with Mitch then fucked a groupie,” Dylan says, “not cool.”

“Yeah, I know it's not —”

“But?”

“But I just don’t think Auston would do something like that. He’s really not that guy.” Connor shrugs. “In all fairness, we all thought he was really into Mitch.”

“Guess not enough,” Dylan says bitterly. He turns on his heel to leave.

It’s frustrating, that there’s still that boundary between them, as invisible as it may be sometimes. Dylan hates being reminded that they’ve overcome some of their shit but there’s still a whole wall of it to deal with. It feels like they’re back to square one.

“You’re shutting me out again? Really?”

Dylan stops. “No. Maybe. I haven’t decided yet,” he answers. “You know, Auston acted like a real dick, and you defending him isn’t helping.”

“Yeah, what he did was really not cool, but — what? You’re gonna take that out on me?”

“You’re defending what he did. Mitch used to be your friend too, you know.” Dylan shouts.

It’s a low blow, but it seems to shut Connor up for the time being. Dylan needs a second to cool off, too. He hasn’t yelled like that in a really long time, and yelling at Connor is even more confusing now that they’re supposed to be friends.

“It’s not fair, Dylan, it’s really not,” Connor says, “you blame me for everything, even this. You could’ve _called_. You could’ve asked me how I was feeling. It’s a two-way street.”

Dylan feels suddenly like all the oxygen in the atmosphere has evaporated or gone to hell or whatever the fuck would logically happen to the oxygen in the atmosphere to keep him from breathing properly. It feels like being slapped, like the other shoe dropping, like the rug being pulled from under his feet. Objectively, Connor’s right. Dylan just never thought he’d hear him say it, sounding so angry and hurt. “I — ” he says.

“You can’t hide behind this forever.” Connor says, which is alarmingly insightful. “You think you’re the only one who was hurting? I missed the hell out of you, and you never bothered to talk to me. And then you fucking _kiss me_ and just expect me to fight with you like nothing’s changed?”

Connor stands up abruptly, then, and storms off to the back of the bus. Dylan reels. What the fuck was that.

“You should probably go,” says Leon, sticking his head out of the hallway, and who Dylan really doesn’t know well enough to feel comfortable about having heard their whole conversation.

 

* * *

 

When he gets back to his own bus, Auston is sitting on a picnic table in front, tapping his thighs furiously. They make eye contact and Dylan approaches slowly, like he’s parsing a skittish animal in the woods.

He thinks maybe Auston’s tight-ass skinny jeans have finally cut off the circulation to his brain, because the guy is lingering. Dylan’s fresh out of patience.

“Can I help you?” He asks, aiming for sarcastic but mostly coming off as short-tempered. He takes a few steps closer and notices the heavy bags under Auston’s bloodshot eyes. It looks like he’s been crying. Fucking emo guys, Dylan swears.

“I think I'm in love with him, man,” Auston pleads, and Dylan’s not about to let the guy who fucked over his best friend board their bus, but Auston looks pretty wrecked.

“You've got a terrible way of showing it.” Dylan says, because duh.

“I wanna make it right. I didn't actually do anything with that girl, you know. She came onto me.”

“Likely story,” Dylan answers. How dumb does Auston think he is?

“I swear.” Auston says, firm. “She's come to our shows before. I really wasn't trying to… I didn't…”

Suddenly, the door to their bus clangs open, and Mitch emerges, all fisticuffs. He hits Auston’s arm several times. It looks to Dylan like he's probably holding back in force, more demonstrative anger than anything, but it's good to know he’s reached that stage of grief. After landing a few more solid punches, Mitch backs off, breathing heavy. Dylan’s sort of impressed that Auston just stood there taking it all, even if he’s twice Mitch’s size. Plus, he’s pretty embarrassed by the obvious hope in Auston’s eyes.

“I deserve that,” Auston says.

“Are you really in love with me?” Mitch asks, eyes narrowed, panting.

“Yeah, dude. Big time.”

“And that girl — ”

“I swear it’s not what it looked like. I'm _gay_ , dude. Gay for you, gay for this, just really gay,”

It's not the most elegant coming out Dylan’s ever witnessed, but also not the least —

(the least was his own, to Connor and Mitch in the tenth grade — )

but it seems to have some sort of effect on Mitch, because his shoulders relax and his face eases from confused contortion into its trademark glow.

“Seriously?”

“If I’d known all it would take for you to forgive me was to shout that I’m gay over and over, I would’ve tried it earlier,” Auston says.

Mitch flips him off, but he’s still glowing, and it’s still all directed at Auston. “I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“That so?” Auston asks, and then, in what Dylan considers a pretty bold move, everything considered, lifts Mitch off the ground bridal-style. It seems to work on Mitch, though, and before giving Dylan any warning, they're making out in front of his very own vulnerable eyes. “What about now?”

Mitch tousles Auston’s hair. “I’ll think about it,” he replies, and he smiles properly.

Dylan leaves them to it.

 

* * *

 

With the Auston and Mitch thing cleared up, Dylan doesn’t know how to feel. Willy, at least, also seems confused by their almost instantaneous reconciliation, but Willy also didn’t get his ass handed to him verbally by Connor McDavid.

They’re drinking in the green room, waiting for YOH to get to the end of their set. Mitch is sitting in Auston’s lap, and Dylan’s happy for them — hand to God, he is — but Connor’s said some things that Dylan can’t forget. Things that are weighing on his soul and shit.

The universe is reading his mind again, apparently. Dylan spots Connor crossing the green room, towards him. He feels his hands get clammy.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Connor asks. Dylan nods, and follows Connor out of the green room, into the adjacent hallway. It’s cramped, since they’re practically under the stage, and there are amps and guitar cases lining the walls surrounding them. Dylan makes sure to keep his knees to himself.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, especially over the last few days since — well, since a lot has happened, and — ”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Davo. Spit it out.”  
  
“Okay, here goes,” Connor says. “I lied.”

Dylan stops fiddling with the label of his beer. He considers the pile of shit they’ve hashed out but not fully resolved over the past few days. The fight. The kiss. The past two years. “Lied about what?”

“Being friends.”

Dylan’s a little floored, and his heart rate picks up to an alarming pace, and he may have to address that if Connor doesn’t offer some kind of explanation. He hopes this doesn’t have to do with the fact that Dylan made the biggest mistake of his fucking life by kissing Connor. Or the fight they had because of the Auston situation. He was kind of counting on their friendship not being so fragile, the second time around. “...meaning?”

Connor’s rocking back on his heels, now, and Dylan recognizes it as the move he does when he’s pissing himself nervous but is too cool to admit it. Like when he had to give class presentations or play his music for a record label. He chews on his lip ring and gives Dylan a pained look. “I can’t just be friends with you, Dyls. The worst fucking part about leaving Ten Minute Misconduct is how you just shut me out completely and I never - I couldn’t explain that I... I’m - ”

“Connor,” Dylan says, suddenly nervous, brain catching up to what Connor sounds like he’s saying, “what do you mean?”

“I just don’t think I can be friends — ” Connor starts. He’s promptly interrupted by a loud cymbal and PK Subban.

“Clear the road, gentlemen,” he says, and he’s got a mason jar full of vodka cran in his left hand. He manages to squeeze past them in the cramped hallway without spilling any of it, though. Dylan clocks his admiration.

“Only he could get away with that,” he says, shaking his head. He turns back to Connor, thankfully rid of the weird buzzing humming through him. He feels more grounded, a good thing if they’re about to have this conversation. “What were you saying?”

Connor kisses him.

Dylan staggers back, hands clamouring around Connor’s waist, his shoulders, his back — anywhere he can possibly reach, and Connor’s still kissing him. It’s — all things considered —

Possibly —

No, _definitely_ the most perfect kiss of Dylan’s life.

Connor pulls away slightly, but Dylan’s not at all prepared to let go of his waist, so he clutches to it for dear life.

“Tell me that wasn’t a mistake.” Dylan pleads, barely above a whisper. His hands are shaking, for some reason.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Connor says, like a brat. “No. Not a mistake.”

“Wait a minute. So when I kissed you the other day — you weren’t, like, repulsed by it?”

“ _Stromer_."

“And — and we had a fucking _fight_ . We _yelled_ at each other and this — _this_ is what you meant by not being friends?”

Connor drops his gaze. “In a sense.”

“I was so fucking mad at you, when you left —”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dylan grabs Connor’s shoulders. “ _No_ , you don’t know. I was so mad because I fucking _loved you_ , man. And I… I hated myself because I loved you, and you _left_.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Connor says, and he tugs up the sleeve of his t-shirt. He points to the 10 Minute Misconduct logo tattooed to his forearm. Dylan feels his own matching tattoo burn at the sight of it. “You think I didn’t love you _back_?”

“You never said anything!”

“Neither did you!”

Dylan sighs. “Mitch was right. We really _are_ hopeless,” he says, breathless.

“Shut up.” Connor answers, and pulls him in for another kiss.

Eventually, they get the cue to get up to the stage for the closer. Connor grabs his hand and pulls him forward through the labyrinth of hallways. Dylan ignores it when Willy kicks his calves.

Before Dylan can even register it, the familiar guitar riff starts up and Tyler and Jamie start leaning into the same microphone, just like they do every night.

He just loves and he loves and he loves and he loves Connor. The sky is falling, it's exploding like fireworks, and the club is still rocking, and Dylan used to climb into Connor’s bedroom through his window to show him lyrics he wrote about Connor’s fucking eyes. Connor used to scratch their initials on bathroom stalls. Brothers for life. They were going to conquer the fucking world together.

They maybe still can.

Connor leans in. He smells a bit raunchy, sweat mingled with clothes that haven’t been washed in a week mingled with his obnoxious Lacoste cologne on top, but Dylan doesn’t totally mind. In a ‘who smells the absolute raunchiest’ contest, Dylan wins every time, anyway. But it’s funny, everyone who puts Connor on some kind of punk pedestal — all those AP mag articles about Connor being the second coming of pop punk — always seem to forget that he’s just a gross-smelling dude like the rest of them. If anything, it’s reassuring, and Dylan meets him in the middle the way he’s been doing his entire life.

Dylan catches Mitch’s eye from across the stage. Mitch gives him a thumbs up, from where he’s perched in a piggyback on Auston’s back. He pulls Connor close, and they sing alternate lines on the second chorus together.

They’ve still got a few dates left on the tour. It’s not a lot of time, but they’ll figure it out. This — all of it — is so much more than Dylan ever envisioned for this tour. All of them up on stage and this big, huge feeling in his chest. Dylan feels someone grab his hand, and he can't really see in the dark, among the flashing lights, but he doesn't have to to know that it's Connor.

The lights go out.

The crowd roars.

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS SCENE: Auston singing Mitch a Nick-Jonas-in-Camp-Rock-2-esque song introducing himself properly.
> 
> A) "West Virginia" is a reference to a song of the same name by The Front Bottoms, which you should check out because it is delightfully angsty and exactly the kind of song Emo Dylan would write about Connor breaking his heart  
> B) The song I envisioned everyone singing for the closer is "Something Wonderful" by Seaway. Tell me Tyler and Jamie didn't write it, I dare you.  
> C) Just imagine pre-band Dylan, Connor, and Mitch singing Simple Plan songs in front of the floor-length mirror in Dylan’s basement - AKA the universal Canadian punk kid experience
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this and, if you were a fan of the original, that you liked my 6-months-late sequel!
> 
> Ps - follow my [writing blog](https://oldjolt.tumblr.com)?


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